Accept No Substitutes
by Fellowshipper
Summary: Matt reflects on what's important in his life -- and what isn't.


Title: Accept No Substitutes  
Disclaimer: If I owned them, things could get very ugly. As it is, I'm stuck with some ungrateful musi and a lifetime supply of Coke. The drink, I might clarify.  
Rating: PG-13 for some language, non-graphic m/m slash, talk of *cringe* incest, enough sap to choke a horse.  
  
Notes: Dear God in heaven, help me. I'm writing Hardys slash. *cringes again* I feel so ... dirty ... but they're so pretty...AAAGH. I hate my life.  
  
For Stasia, for obvious reasons. She also semi-inspired this one, so thanks babe! :D  
  
******  
  
It's not fair. True, no one ever made any kind of promise about life being fair, but whatever hand of fate decided it'd be funny to play this kind of joke on me is seriously deranged. It's bad enough that Momma's oldest boy likes other boys too, but what's worse is that he likes Momma's youngest boy most of all. It's a damn sick joke, if you ask me, and if I could figure out a way to disown myself from my brother just so that I only have to worry about the gay-bashers by themselves, I would in a minute.  
  
That might be enough to explain exactly why I'm here in some flashy, trendy night club that really does nothing for me, trying everything I know to get my mind off the only person I want. It's gross and immoral and wrong on many levels, and somewhere deep down I'm still very much aware of that. Sometime, though, when I let my guard drop, I realized I didn't care. It didn't matter to me that I was a horrible human being for lusting after my own little brother. It didn't bother me that if I told anyone else, or even so much as hinted at it, my life would be ruined and I'd be the pariah Jeff so often thinks he is.   
  
It's ironic, in a way. No one understands why I don't have a girlfriend, or a boyfriend for those few who are aware of my often-swinging tendencies. "You're a nice guy," they'll say. Smart. Funny. Fun to be with and fun to have around. I could, I guess, have anyone I wanted, or so most people try to tell me. Even Jeff has before he figured out I wasn't listening to him. Yeah, I could have some wide-eyed fan eating out of the palm of my hand if I smiled at her and batted my eyes, but that's not what I want. That's not what I've ever wanted. I'll never want that. It's what I'll get, sooner or later, when I'm forced into a marriage I don't want to be in just for the sake of making my dad a grandfather. He's always said that it would fall on my shoulders to see to it that that happened, since Jeff has never made a secret of his preference for men over women, though he'd take either if they struck his fancy. So yes, it falls on responsible, reliable, completely and utterly straight Matt's shoulders to make up for Jeff's lifestyle choice.   
  
Lucky me.  
  
No one but those who grow up in the south know the kind of shit you take for being anything less than a narrow-minded heterosexual. They don't know the kind of honest venom in someone's words when they see two guys walking down the street who smile a bit too friendly at each other, or two girls who are caught holding hands. They don't know what it's like to hear someone yell whole-hearted insults at those people and believe every word that comes out their mouth. Faggots and dykes are nobody's friends where I come from. They aren't welcome. They don't belong in North by God Carolina. The braver ones fly in the face of the mainstream and make no effort whatsoever to cover up their true feelings. The ones like me keep it jammed up inside until we find someone we trust with our lives or we get drunk and accidentally admit it to some stranger on the corner. It's no way to live a life but it's the only life I've ever known.   
  
Sometimes I think Jeff's proud of himself, proud of how brazen he is and how he flirts with anything pretty that catches his attention, regardless of age, race, gender, whatever. Our father, much as we both love him, has always been and still is one of those overbearing "get a job and get a family" types. Jeff was never able to flex his true personality when we were still at home, so now it's as if he overcompensates, throwing it back at everyone who ever might have sneered at him in Cameron. The glitter, the eyeliner, the nail polish and fishnets, the chunky clunky boots, none of that's really him. Okay, the hair dye, yes, but all the other stuff is purely for aesthetic quality. Eye candy. Jeff goes to great lengths to underline his ambiguity in bright, glittering orange highlights. He loves the attention it warrants, loves every open-mouthed stare he gets while grinding on a dance floor against some drunken college guy, loves the disgusted looks when he's in the back seat of some girl's car when he doesn't even know her name.   
  
He doesn't know how much it gets to me when he does things, just these little things, without even trying to bother me. No, it doesn't bother me because he's my baby brother and I'm obligated to give him the lectures about respecting himself and not putting out for every pretty face who grins at him. I'm supposed to tell him that he's worth more than that and that he doesn't need to lower himself to a common whore and split his legs or anyone else's, for that matter, just to have a fun night out. Truth is, that doesn't bother me, because I know Jeff *does* respect himself, despite all claims to the contrary. Maybe too much, since he doesn't believe in settling down anytime soon just to make someone else happy. I know he's having fun, I know he's careful, and that's all that's important in the end. Life's short, and it's not worth living if you don't enjoy it and make the most of your time. It doesn't bother me to see him making out with a nameless someone in a back booth of some dark, seedy bar, because I know once he leaves them the next morning he's very likely never going to see them again, but we'll be the ones sharing a hotel room.   
  
Whole damn lot of good that does me.  
  
I'm very much aware of how sick it is that I'm hopelessly in love in a way that brothers never should be. I'm also too aware that I can never admit that to anyone, under any circumstances, for any reason. It hurts to be so head over heels for someone and yet know that I can never have them. That's as good an explanation as any for why I'm sitting here driving myself up the fucking wall for someone I *know* I can't have. It's stupid and childish and for whatever reasons I seem to think by sitting here I'm going to solve something, but I don't have the sense to get up and leave. It's this constant needing, wanting, and the knowledge that he'll never be mine that drives me to constantly seek refuge in these clubs. Jeff all but lives in these places. I've tried telling him that if you've seen one you've seen 'em all, but he counters that the variety of people in them is endless. Arguing with him is as useless as yelling at a brick wall, so I don't press the issue.  
  
As I find myself doing time and time again, I always give in to his pleading and tag along with him. He hits the dance floor, completely disregarding the notion he's a terrible dancer, while I sit at a table and watch. Judging by the looks I've seen him garner from onlookers, I don't think it matters that he's a very white Southern boy attempting to dance; all anyone sees is that wild blue and green hair falling from its ponytail to spill over slender shoulders, hips swaying in a way meant to tempt onlookers, seduce them into joining him. I've never been able to place it, but there's just this air about Jeff, something about the way he carries himself, that makes it clear he'll give you a night of intense passion and break your heart the next morning. People can't resist it. He's a male slut and for some reason people are drawn to him, just like I am. Only difference is that they're not related to him. They don't have guilt and shame to keep their emotions hidden. They don't have to go to family reunions with a sick little ball in their stomachs because they're reminded yet again that they're going to hell with nothing to show for it.  
  
I've lost count of how many times I've gone to clubs with him. Those rare moments when he actually sits with me, he teases me about not dancing and I make fun of all the dancing pretty boys. When he wanders off with a new playmate for the night, I'm free to indulge myself as I please. I go back to watching all the dancing pretty boys, searching out the one I think bears the most resemblance to Jeff and make my move. It's completely shallow and self-serving and I always feel a little lower everytime I knowingly use someone to fulfill a sick private fantasy, and it's sure as hell not a replacement, but for now it's a substitute for something better. It's how I pass the time when I'm not busy sulking and pouting about how unfair the world is that I'm related to the most perfect for me person on this planet or any other.  
  
Tonight, for example - I came here on my own, since Jeff wasn't feeling too well earlier. My first instinct as a brother, a friend, and a hopeless sleaze, was to stay with him until his mild case of food poisoning died down and make sure he got better soon. Then I figured I'd spend the night pining over him and kicking myself for having ever been born, so I left a bottle of Pepto Bismol by his bed and told him to call my cell phone if he needed anything. Right now, since he's yet to call, I'm sitting here nursing a glass of rum and Coke and a sore ankle from a bad landing in a match earlier. I don't normally drink and I never get hurt in matches, so it's a totally new experience for me. I felt that tonight warranted a good stiff drink and some personal time to consider my fucked up and fucked over mind. Oh, sure, I might be the nicest guy on the planet, but I'm like something that walked out of fucking Deliverance and I can't do anything about it. I wish I could, but I can't. I wish I didn't feel the need to protect him like I do. I will always be his big brother, regardless of whatever happens between us, and as such I feel a responsibility to keep him as sheltered from the world as possible. That's the only thing keeping me from telling him flat out that I just want to forget we were ever related and that all I want is to be with him. Jeff's ... he's an attention hog, but only when it suits him. He would never stand for that. Worse yet, it would only end up hurting him, since he'd think I'd only been nice to him all this time because I wanted in his pants. I can't do that to him, and I won't, not so long as I'm sober and still have my senses.  
  
Enough of that, though. I came here to get plastered and go home with some dancing pretty boy and scream Jeff's name the rest of the night and leave before the guy wakes up in the morning.  
  
The dance floor is just a few feet away, giving me the perfect view of a guy who looks quite a bit like Jeff - the long, cat-like body, the grace in his movements, the fire-red hair pulled away from an almost feminine face...the baggy jeans and the tight shirt that offers teasing glimpses of a belly button ring that flashes in the overhead lights. It's funny, in a way. I always used to think belly button rings on guys were exceedingly stupid and a great way to announce to the homophobic world that you wanted your neck snapped, but my opinion changed the night Jeff came home with one. He was swaying uneasily on his feet and reeked of pot and booze, but he was proud of his latest rebellion and wasn't going to bed easily. I was trying to get him into his room before Dad heard us and really let him have it, but Jeff wasn't happy until I agreed to let him show me his new toy. He pulled his shirt up and showed his navel, red and swollen but boasting a shiny silver bar. From that night on, I've been a fan of the things.  
  
Well. It's time to make my move. I don't know this guy's name, how old he is, or even if he's here with anyone else. That's not important anyway. If I have my way about it, I'll be going home with him *and* his date if he brought one. I will close my eyes and use this warm body to tell myself that I am not just screwing some random stranger I picked up in a club but the eternal object of my hopeless affection. I will cling to his hair and see not red, but wisps of aqua and green. I will not see plain, boring nails but nails with black polish chipping off that I'll remind Jeff to repaint the next chance he gets. I will not hear whatever voice this man has, but rather a soft, quiet one with an accent that gets thicker when it's really at ease. I will not sleep with this nameless, faceless person. I will sleep with Jeff tonight, as I do many nights, and I will puke tomorrow morning in my hotel room toilet from too much to drink and then I will cry because Jeff will come in, worried, and hold me because he doesn't know what else to do, and that will only make me cry harder.   
  
God, but life's a bitch, isn't it?  
  
I'm sure that if some of the intolerant friends I grew up with could see the miserable situation I've gotten myself into this time, they'd laugh until they popped open. They were the ones who would sit out in the parking lot, calling people like Jeff horrible names and wondering why I never joined in, why I never found it that funny. They were the ones who never saw how terrified I was to be around my own brother because I was scared I might say too much, or I might tip him off about how I felt, or I might leave a hand on his shoulder for just a second too long. They didn't know that I loved Jeff more than life itself and yet he scared me more than anyone else, because I knew that one little mistake could take him away from me and that he had all the power to crush me, to leave me broken and bleeding on the ground. Dramatic, sure, but it's true.   
  
I'm sure those same friends would think it's real funny to see me now, sitting in some club, visually stalking a guy for the sole reason being he reminds me of my own brother. I don't know what they'd say to me, or if they'd call me the same names they called everyone else, and I don't want to know.   
  
I want to know where this red-haired guy with the navel ring lives.   
  
Finishing my drink with one swift gulp, I set it down on the table and wander over, albeit a little unsteadily, to the floor, sliding in effortlessly behind said guy and leaning down a couple inches so that my mouth as at his ear. I don't dance. I can, however, and do, make dirty talk when the mood strikes.   
  
"Is it too soon in the relationship t'say I'd like to fuck you?" I ask bluntly, going to great lengths to cover my accent. Quite a feat, considering I'm a bit tipsy right now. Far from drunk, but with just enough of a buzz rolling around in my head that I'm willing to say or do damn near anything to get what I want.   
  
He turns, surprised, but then he looks me over, grins, and shakes his head. "Nah. It's not, uh..."   
  
"Matt."   
  
"Matt. I like it. It's short and to the point." He thrusts his hand out to meet mine. "I'm Larry."   
  
Oh fuck. What kind of modern parent would name their child Larry? Visions of child molesting uncles who spend their free time in bowling alleys arrive unbidden in my mind, but I clear them quickly and force a shaky grin. "Hi. I like that name, too." Not. "Two syllable names are always the best t'scream out."   
  
Which is true, yes, but I have no intentions on screaming Larry at the top of my lungs, not tonight or any other night.   
  
His eyes widen as I take the hand offered to me, bringing it up to press a kiss to his palm. He's helpless to fight back against me, letting me lead him backwards until we're at the door. He crushes me against it, and I immediately taste cigarettes and some sort of minty gum as his mouth finds its way over mine. I've always sort of imagined that being what Jeff tastes like, even despite the fact he doesn't smoke. That just completes the lovely little dreamworld I've made for myself; I grab the back of ... Larry's neck, pulling him down and deepening the kiss, massaging the base of his skull with my fingertips. He groans into my mouth, pressing me closer against the door, and I'm ready to jump him right here until an irritated throat clears on my left, at least as irritated as making a throat-clearing noise could be. I look to see a bouncer glaring at us, jerking a meaty thumb to indicate the sidewalk. Larry notices that I've stopped kissing back and he stops, staring at me for an explanation. I look back to him, smiling faintly.  
  
"Ah'm good t'drive." Fuck my accent. I don't care anymore. "Ah'll follow."   
  
  
  
And follow I did.   
  
It's about twenty minutes until nine, much later than I expected to be leaving. I'm working on tying my shoes when the bed creaking behind me makes me look up. Larry's on one elbow, smiling dumbly at me.   
  
"Leaving so soon?"   
  
Old housecleaning habit of mine, I suppose, but I pick up the condom wrapper I threw in the floor last night and drop it into the trash can at the foot of the bed. "Yeah. Ah-I've gotta catch an early flight."   
  
His face falls for a second, then perks right back up as he fumbles through the night stand drawers and comes back with an envelope and a pencil. He takes something out of the envelope -- a bill, it looks like, then turns the envelope over to its plain white side, scribbles...oh God, he's giving me his number. The poor guy. This must be his first one nighter. That, or he's fooling himself that there's something here that's not, just like I am.  
  
"Call me," he orders with a grin, pushing the paper into my hand and closing his hand around mine. I nod in agreement, tuck the envelope away in my jeans, and say my goodbyes to him before leaving the third story apartment, down to the street. I groan as I sink into the soft leather of the rental car, staring up at the gray roof overhead and cursing myself, like I always do after one of these emotionless trips. I hate myself a little more every morning I sneak out of someone's bed, knowing they meant nothing to me and that they might have been given the impression I was serious when I said I wanted them. I did, but only specific things. I wanted one because he had the same hazel, soulful eyes Jeff has. I wanted another because he painted his nails. I wanted yet another because I saw him wearing a shirt I'd seen Jeff wear before. I will have Jeff, one piece at a time if need be, I will have a collection of useless phone numbers to remind me of all the men who have given me a piece of the one man that I can't get.  
  
The tinny sound of the Macarena shakes me from my thoughts, but I don't realize it's my cell phone until the third time that stupid part from that stupid song plays. "Hello?"   
  
"Matt, hi."   
  
My heart stops, or nearly does. It's Jeff on the other end, and he sounds absolutely awful. Suddenly, I have all these ideas in my head that I left him while he was deathly ill last night so I could go screw a guy who looked a little bit like him, and I feel like the worst brother in the world and a complete waste of skin. Then he coughs and I remind myself that he is, dying or not, still on the phone.   
  
"Yeah?" Shit. Nice way to sound sensitive to the needs of the dying, there, Matt. "Hi. How are you feelin'?"   
  
"Good."   
  
"Try again."   
  
He groans and hesitates before answering. "Like shit. Shit run over, in fact."   
  
That sounded about right. I chuckled under my breath, knowing he wouldn't appreciate me laughing at his pain. I figure it's only fair, since the gods of fate seem to never tire of laughing at mine. "Sorry. Don't y'feel *any* better than y'did last night?"   
  
"Not really. Jay brought over some kinda Mexican food or somethin' t'make me feel better and Ah puked on his shoes."   
  
Somehow, even that is endearing to me, just makes him that much cuter in my eyes. "But you're still alive t'tell about it, so he musta taken it pretty well."   
  
"Yeah, but he threw a bowl o' sour cream dip at me, just t'make us even."   
  
"That's not very nice."   
  
"Especially since the bowl was hard plastic. So now, aside from bein' sick as a dog, Ah've got a huge knot on m'head. He apologized for like an hour before Ah told him t'make it up t'me when Ah'm feelin' better an' kicked him outta the room."   
  
And so the self-hating part of me comes back, waving its battle flag and screaming at me for having forgotten about it for this long. Yes, Jeff is a perfectly healthy young guy, and completely normal save for the fact he likes shiny, glittering things and buys more nail polish that any girl I've ever seen and wears platforms even though he's six feet and some tall barefoot. Other than that, he's normal, and an older brother with a crush on him has no part in his normal life. I fall silent, swearing violently in my head when warm tears start trekking down my face. I'm embarrassed for feeling this way about him, helpless because I can't do a thing about it, scared because I'm going to spend the rest of my life alone, desperate to have someone to talk to, and now utterly humiliated because he makes one little allusion to a guy that isn't me and I go to pieces.   
  
I try my best to cover my tracks, holding my hand over the mouthpiece while I swipe my hand across my eyes and nose. I don't do a good enough job, though, since I can practically hear Jeff's frown.   
  
"Are you cryin'?"   
  
"No."   
  
Even though my voice is wavering. Oh God. Kill me now.  
  
"Yeah you are. Matt, what's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing," I lie, snapping at him in my frustration. Why can't he see what he means to me and confess that he's been secretly harboring these same feelings for years? That's what happens in those insipid romance novels and movies. Am I not even good enough for that?   
  
"Bullshit. You're cryin', Matt." He pauses, and I picture him running his hand through his hair, tossing thin bits of green hair from his eyes. I sob without trying to hide it. "Matt? Matt, c'mon, man, what's wrong? You can talk t'me, y'know."   
  
"No, J-Jeff, Ah c-can't. Not now, not about this."   
  
He sighs on the other end of the line, and I hear static against the phone, no doubt due to him sitting up and shifting the phone to the other ear. "Yes you can an' you know that. Y'can talk t'me about anything. You're m'brother."  
  
I'm in the process of blowing my nose into a napkin I found stuffed in the glove compartment when he says that, and that just makes me sob even harder. "Dammit, Jeff, that's the problem, okay?" I stop short before I spill everything, having successfully stunned Jeff into silence. "Look, nothin's wrong, okay? It-It's me. There's just...there's somethin' wrong with me, but that's nothin' new."   
  
"Why the hell are y'bein' so goddamn cryptic? Why won't y'just answer me?"   
  
But I'm not about to be sucked into that tempting trap again. "Ah gotta go. Ah'll ... Ah don't know when Ah'll be back. Before the show, Ah promise."   
  
"Matt? Matt, don't you fucking dare hang up on --"  
  
I hit a button and Jeff's voice abruptly ends, and before it can ring again I turn the phone off and toss it carelessly into the passenger seat beside me. Then, like a true drama queen, I lean my head against the steering wheel and cry until I don't have anything left inside me but guilt and resentment for myself. A sharp corner of something pokes my back until I pull the forgotten envelope from my back pocket, looking over the numbers with tear-filled eyes. It would be so easy to just stay with this guy, have some close to a normal relationship, lie to myself for the next few decades and tell myself I'm happy with anyone who doesn't eat cookie dough for breakfast or prank call coworkers from the hotel lobby payphone or writes sappy poems because he doesn't think anyone really loves him for him. I can lie and tell myself that this is what I want, or I can just lay myself out in the open and accept rejection as it comes, cold, hard, fast, brutal, but at least as an end to this bullshit.   
  
Two tears clinging to my chin drop as one, landing on the envelope and smearing the new pencil writing until it become an illegible blur. I laugh while not finding anything particularly funny, then drop my hands to my sides in defeat. I guess that's that.   
  
I pick up the phone and turn it back on, and before I have a chance to set it on the dashboard the Macarena is playing again.   
  
"It's about damn time!"   
  
"It was off for five minutes, Jeff."   
  
"Whatever. Where the fuck are you? Ah'm gonna come find you an' beat you until y'tell me what's wrong."   
  
I smile at the thought; my Jeff, always ready to play therapist for me. My hand's shaking so that the phone jumps at my ear, but I manage to keep it steadied with my shoulder's aid. "Jeff, uh...don't send out the rescue party or nothin', okay? Ah'm on m'way home."   
  
"Good." He's still fuming, more because I was ignoring him than anything, but he's calming gradually. "Could y'pick up some more Pepto Bismol on the way back?"   
  
"Sure."   
  
"Thanks."   
  
I draw in a gasping breath, close my eyes, and pray. "Jeff, there's...somethin' Ah need t'talk t'you about."   
  
"Shoot."   
  
"No, Ah mean...not here. When Ah get back. It's...you're not gonna like it, but will y'promise at least not t'kill me?"   
  
He pauses, considering, and I can just picture him shrugging in his painfully indifferent manner. "'Kay."   
  
We say goodbye, the phone goes back to the passenger seat, and I wipe the last dwindling tears from my eyes before tossing the ruined envelope into the back seat. Jeff cannot be replaced, ever, and it's time I let him know just that. I'll do it while spoon feeding him medicine, if I have to, but I'll let him know. 


End file.
